


Spiders and Flies

by cheshirecat101



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dark, Depression, Developing Relationship, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Violence, Nightmares, PTSD John, Psychological Trauma, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-11 20:19:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshirecat101/pseuds/cheshirecat101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Moriarty is a serial killer, and John is the victim that got away. Seventeen years later, and all signs point to Jim being back, on the hunt for John once again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spiders and Flies

**Author's Note:**

> Whew, this is finally done! This dark little piece came about because I participated in the Johniarty Secret Santa, and we had to choose both an art and a writing prompt to give out as gift requests. Someone drew me a lovely picture as a gift, so I decided to fill my own prompt. And this happened. 
> 
> Many, many thanks to the wonderful [Mazarin221B](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/works) for betaing this for me, she did an amazing job and apparently her sleep was made more difficult by what she read. Sorry for that. <3

The biggest mistake a serial killer can ever make is to let a victim go.

Well, not ‘let’ go. John knew, acutely, that what happened to him was a stroke of sheer luck, and nothing purposeful on the part of the other party involved. He was incredibly, amazingly lucky that he was able to get away at all, and he didn’t attribute it to his cleverness or fortitude or anything as stupid as that. No. His attacker slipped up. Barely. And he took advantage.

He was twenty at the time it happened, a Uni student in the ridiculously difficult field of medicine as he strove desperately for his ultimate goal of becoming a doctor. It meant a lot of late nights and earlier mornings, heavy textbooks that kept his shoulders and back consistently sore, and an unhealthy dependence on caffeine that failed to keep away the deep bags underneath his eyes. He loved what he was doing; of course he did, the level of commitment demanded no less. And there was no doubt in his mind that he wanted to be a doctor; that he wanted to save lives and help people heal. But he was being worn thin by the work, fraying at the edges due to sheer exhaustion and the relentless grind brought on by the cycle of class, work, study, sleep a few hours (if lucky), repeat. And yes, there was work. Because it was almost laughable to think that he was having his education paid for. No, considering the situation at home and the problems inherent, he had to pay for his education by himself. And it certainly wasn’t a cheap one, though it was made much easier by his commitment to enlist after graduation, ensuring a steady inflow of tuition money from the army. The job was more for the money needed to support himself, pay for his shitty flat and his groceries and his ridiculously expensive textbooks.

It was hard work, and exhausting, but worth it. He just never thought of it as dangerous in any way. Of course, he’d seen the papers and the news on the telly. Some psychopath who was preying on male Uni students, kidnapping them and doing unspeakable things to them before killing them in the most gruesome ways imaginable. Some had had all of their organs ripped out, some had been stabbed numerous times, some had simply been a mass of scar tissue and burns and missing parts by the time their bodies were found. One particular victim had been displayed spectacularly, his chest cavity opened and his ribcage pried apart, a bite taken out of his heart. They speculated he’d still been alive when his ribcage was opened.

The victims were all similar; young male Uni students, usually of an athletic build, though the hair and eye colors varied victim to victim, along with the murder method. The only reason the police were sure they were all connected was the mark carved into each of them, the placement changing with the men; a spider, carved into their skin with the same blade every time. The media had immediately pounced on that, quickly dubbing the horrific killer ‘The Spider’ and running story after story about his crimes and Scotland Yard’s inability to find any leads. It seemed he was too clever for them, always able to cover his tracks, always taking students from different places, and never, ever, involving himself with them in any personal way before he took them. The kidnappings were just as beautifully executed as the killings; NSY speculated that The Spider stalked all of his victims far in advance, planned everything out to the last detail before making any move at all. He was terrifyingly thorough, and the subject of most discussions on campus nowadays.

So of course, John had heard about him. He caught snippets of conversation here and there, mostly brushing it off if someone tried to talk to him about it because his world was entirely practical and had no spare room for psychopaths and their hobbies. Besides, he was safe. Sort of. He did, at least, walk with people most of the time, and avoided dark areas and didn’t linger at night. He always kept the keys to his flat in hand so he wouldn’t have to pause and fumble at the door, always stayed aware of his surroundings and always kept track of strangers near him on the street. But considering how many things he was juggling at once, how much he had going on—and _god_ , that perpetual exhaustion he carried—something had to give somewhere, sometime. He just didn’t realize that that slip would nearly be enough to kill him.

Besides, how on earth was he supposed to know that this had already been set in motion weeks ago? That his fate had already been sealed, the trap set, all the preparations made to take him apart? There was no way of knowing what was waiting for him on one particular drizzly night, past 3 am as he made his way home from work, his arms wrapped around himself as he hugged his too-thin coat to his body in a futile effort to keep away the chill. The rain, actually, was quite possibly the only thing keeping him awake, the cold damp of it settling into his bones and keeping the exhaustion already living there company. As it was, he was having trouble keeping his eyes open, focusing on his quick, hard steps against the pavement as he strode purposefully towards his flat. His shitty, tiny, warm and sheltered flat. That had a bed in it. Oh sweet lord, it had a bed. His steps quickened some at this thought, his senses perking up a little at the promise of rest. Not perking up enough, it seemed, because he didn’t hear the footsteps behind him until an arm was wrapped around his throat, a quick, sharp pain dealt out by another hand, the prick of a needle in his neck.

John twisted and writhed in his assailant’s grip as best he could, the drug quickly taking over his already exhausted system. His body, poor thing that it was, couldn’t distinguish between proper sleep and a drugged unconsciousness that by all rights should have had him panicking. He just didn’t have the energy to resist, his limbs growing heavy far too quickly as he slumped in the arms of whoever it was who’d attacked him, consciousness slipping into darkness as he finally got the sleep he’d been deprived.

When he woke up, the first, most obvious thing, was that his head was pounding out of his skull. To the point that coherent thoughts wouldn’t form and he couldn’t register anything but the pain of the _thud thud thud_ accompanying every beat of his heart. He couldn’t seem to keep his eyes open either, both of them only able to stay open for less than a second, rolling shut again heavily as he tried to swallow, his throat working in useless motions against the sandpaper that formed its walls. He could hear, at least, but that wasn’t doing him any good, because he couldn’t hear a damn thing. Maybe he couldn’t hear, then, because otherwise he was surrounded by absolute silence and that was a terrifying thought. That meant no one around to help, no sign of a savior, no one who could hear him if he screamed—he tried his voice and only managed to get out something closer to a mewl than anything else. He closed his mouth, barely managing to swallow before taking a deep breath and trying again, managing to get out the ‘lo’ part of ‘hello’ in a thick voice. He could at least hear himself speak, which meant that his hearing was working and he was, indeed, surrounded by silence. The pounding in his head had subsided some and he tried to move, confused when the motion of his hands was limited. They were…they were…attached to something. Somehow. Cool metal. Sound of a chain. Oh. Handcuffs. His wrists were handcuffed together, the chain looped around something and the whole thing preventing him from moving his hands, which were stretched above his head. A feeble tug to test the chain revealed that it was secured, unyielding against whatever it was that kept him from pulling his hands down.

Oh Jesus. Here he was, trussed up like a prize for some psychopath, his senses scattered and his movements limited as he waited for whoever had done this to come back. The thought skittered across his mind that maybe, just maybe, this was connected to all of the awfulness that had swallowed the news recently, and that he was about to become a statistic, victim number…god, he didn’t even know what number he’d be. The _police_ didn’t even know what victim number they were up to, considering there could easily be plenty of bodies they had yet to discover. This killer was untouchable, and that thought did absolutely nothing to settle the nerves fluttering in John’s stomach. They were just nerves at the moment, slowly growing and changing into a full blown panic that he was desperately trying to tamp down so he could focus on trying to get himself out of this awful, awful situation.

His eyes, at least, were staying open now, and he could see that he was in what looked like a disused factory, the room lit by a few faulty lights that were scattered around, one on the ceiling near him, a few around the rest of the room, and the rest leading down the hallway in the line of sight to his left. The room itself was shabby and obviously long abandoned; the walls were stained and dirty, the ceiling was leaking in steady drips onto the floor, and the exposed pipes climbing along some of the walls were all rusted. Craning his head up at a diagonal allowed him to see that there were windows along the wall where his handcuffs were bound somehow, some broken, most of them stained, and a few boarded up. The broken ones would explain the cold in the room, along with how easy it was for him to hear the sound of light rain outside now that he was paying attention to it instead of his terror. He could also see that the sky was still rather dark, meaning that it was probably into the early hours of the morning and he hadn’t been passed out for too long.

He took a few deep, shuddering breaths, trying to calm himself enough to just _think_. Another pull on the handcuffs; no luck, though he could hear the chain scrape against whatever it was around. A pipe, probably. So, no luck with the handcuffs. Fuck. Well, unless he sawed off his hands, it looked like he wasn’t getting out of these, and that was the hardest part. Though if he did get out of them, he’d still have to find his way out of the creaky old building, no doubt while being stealthily stalked by the aforementioned psychopath and praying it was a quick death. He knew it wouldn’t be. Not when this guy, whoever he was, seemed to enjoy ripping apart his victims, torturing them while they were alive and then dragging their deaths out so they stayed alive as long as possible. If that was the fate he was in for then—oh holy _fuck_.

Someone was slinking out of the shadows in the corner of the room, emerging from a darkened doorway that he hadn’t even noticed. Jesus Christ. His entire body tensed all at once, his heart beginning to beat out of his chest as he contemplated the man who he had a sinking feeling was going to be his inevitable killer. All in all, he didn’t look particularly frightening; a man around John’s age, seemingly of average weight for his height, which looked to be a few inches taller than John. “Brown hair…brown eyes…wearing casual stuff, y’know, jeans and a t-shirt,” John would later describe to the police, sitting stock still in the ambulance with a shock blanket wrapped around him. “But his smile…” His smile, yes, had nothing human in it whatsoever. It was a psychotic mask, a painted on Cheshire Cat grin used to make him seem more normal when it did the exact opposite.

John thought his heart had stopped beating. He certainly stopped breathing for a moment there, as if holding his breath could make the man’s eyes slide right past him. Of course, it did no such thing, and he found himself releasing a strained exhale as the man’s eyes stayed intently, intensely focused on him, like John was the most interesting thing in the world. Like he was a new toy the man couldn’t wait to play with. Yes, he was definitely going to die at this man’s hands. His chest was moving in quick, short motions in time with his breaths, and somehow they seemed to get shorter as the man started towards him, each step slow, almost playful with the way he moved his feet. The whole thing made John think of colorful snakes coiling through the grass, moving in pretty, but deadly motions.

“I’m SO glad you’re awake,” the man was saying now, that goddamn grin still stretching his lips into something absolutely inhuman and positively terrifying. His voice wasn’t much better; playful, lilting, nearly breathless with…excitement? Yes, excitement. Jesus Christ. “I’m a teensy bit surprised you woke up so early, truth be told. But that’s fun, isn’t it? We get to start the fun so much earlier.” He’d made it all the way to about a foot in front of John, stopping juuuust out of the reach of John’s feet if he decided to kick out at him. Clever bastard. The man cocked his head to the side, watching John intently. “What’s your name, love?”

John didn’t answer, and the man sighed melodramatically and threatened lightly, “The more you fight me the worse this will be for you. Name.”

Part of the reason he hadn’t answered was that he wasn’t even sure his voice could work, as his throat wasn’t much better than it’d been when he first awoke. He tried once more and managed to slur out, “John.”

The man’s smile instantly perked back up. “John what, dearest?”

“…son,” John said, his mind bridging the word from the man and only spitting out half of his name.

The man’s brow furrowed slightly. “John Whatson? What a funny name.”

“Wat…son,” John corrected with some difficulty, too drugged out of his mind to realize he was giving his real, full name to a psychopath, and the man said, “Ohhh, much more sensible. Less fun, though.” He seemed to contemplate this for a minute, a slight frown on his face, and then smiled as he focused back on John.

“Do you know who I am, John?”

John shook his head.   
“Oh, you must at least have an idea. I’ll give you three guesses, and the first two don’t count.”

He looked delighted, excited to play this game with John. And it quite clearly was a game, from the way he was treating it. John didn’t even have words to express how fucked up this all was.

“The Spider,” John said, finding that his voice was getting easier to use and more under his control again.

The man clapped his hands like a fucking child presented with a birthday present. “Oh, very good, Johnny boy!” He paused a moment. “Yes, ‘Johnny boy’, I rather like that, don’t you, lovely?”

John didn’t want to answer, didn’t even open his mouth, and a switch flipped as the man demanded, “DON’T YOU?”

“Yes!” John agreed instantly, and the man seemed to relax again, that fucking smile popping back up.

He put his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels as he bent forward to smile at John. Not smile. Leer. “Well, Johnny boy, my name is Jim, and we’re going to be best friends. Don’t you want to be friends with me?”

No. _No you bloody fucking psychopath I want to strangle you to death and then run the fuck out of here and forget this whole experience ever happened_ —but he nodded. Because god knows he couldn’t afford to piss off Jim when his life was currently in his hands. Jim, who was now smiling, and—oh god that was a knife in his hands, where the hell had that come from? His body panicked on instinct, legs beginning to kick at the ground as he tried to push himself away from Jim in a desperate and useless attempt that Jim just giggled at. He dropped down, taking a minute to fight with John’s still moving legs before he settled over his hips, straddling and squeezing his knees tight around John’s thighs to limit his movements.

“Let’s get a few formalities out of the way, shall we?” Jim said with a smile, and John fought the urge to wriggle underneath him as the other man started cutting his shirt off of him, knowing movement could make Jim’s currently steady hand unreliable. Jim evidently noticed his self-control, because he smiled and purred, “Good boy,” before finishing stripping off his shirt. The barrier gone, he raked his eyes over John’s chest in a way that had John trying to melt into the cold cement floor in an effort to get away. God, he looked like he was ready to _devour_ him. Take him down to his bones and then suck the marrow out of those.

John’s breath hitched as a cold, pale hand began to roam over his chest, its touch light, almost gentle. Gentle. God. “Where should I leave it, Johnny boy?” Jim asked in a hush, his eyes on his hand before they flicked up to meet John’s. “Before we get started, I want to make my mark on this beautiful skin of yours, and I don’t know where. Any suggestions, love?”

John closed his eyes, chest heaving under the weight of his situation. It was probably better that he did, since there was the touch of a knife tip to him now that nearly made him jump out of his skin, the tip trailing along the same paths the hand had traveled. Oh god. He was really going to die, wasn’t he? This was the end. He was going to die here, on this dirty floor, in this shitty building, at the hands of an absolute maniac who would only go on to kill others until someone—miraculously—caught him, or he died somehow. Maybe that was the thought that caused his eyes to open again, his head tipped back slightly so he would see the ceiling and not the psychopath on top of him.

“Ooh, there we are,” Jim was saying, and John could only assume he’d found a spot. Jesus. He hoped Harry would be sober at his funeral. Maybe Mike would come? A few ex-girlfriends, maybe. After all, after someone died like this a bunch of people always came out of the woodwork to say how nice they were, how caring and considerate. It didn’t matter if it was true or not; after a horrific death like this, you couldn’t say anything else.

“We’re going to have so much fun together, Johnny boy. You and I.”

He felt a hand brush over the skin of his left shoulder and he tried to remember how to swallow, tipping his head back further so he could see more of the wall behind him, red brick with a rusted pipe running down the middle—oh. _The pipe_. Of course, he’d seen them all around the room, it’d make sense that the one he was attached to was rusted as well, but he hadn’t put the pieces together and was doing it now. That meant…well, he didn’t know if it actually meant that. But he could try it. It was either that or die at the hands of a psychopath without even making an effort to live. And that was too sad for him.

He felt a hand on his chin, forcing him to tip his head back down again, Jim making immediate eye contact with him. His eyes were wild, and dark, and so very hard to look away from. “Oh, don’t look so dubious. I make such a good playmate. And you, my dear, are perfect,” he said, displaying his full array of white, sharp teeth again. He leaned in to gently kiss John’s cheek, movement light, nearly delicate, and that was all the warning John had before he shoved the knife into his shoulder.

The pain was, for lack of a better word, excruciating. Exquisite would perhaps apply as well, because he’d never felt anything like this in his life and it just. Didn’t. End. The psychopath seemed intent on carving right down to the very bone, and John couldn’t breathe even though he’d only done one leg and it must have taken him less than a minute. A temporary relief as the knife was removed, only to be broken by the sound of his screaming as it went in him again, carving a second leg. By the third he was starting to feel dizzy, his body beginning to go into shock, and he realized that if he didn’t move now he might not be able to gather his strength at all. So when the knife had been temporarily removed after the fourth leg, he pulled himself together, and used all of the strength he had to yank on the handcuff chain around the pipe. Jesus Christ it hurt. The movement flexed the muscles and skin of his newly marred shoulder and he thought for a second he was going to pass out, his vision temporarily darkening before it cleared again and he pulled harder on the chain until there was the sound of metal tearing, and suddenly his hands were free and he immediately punched Jim, who was staring at him with a slightly dazed expression. The hit was enough to knock him back and John immediately started kicking with all of his strength until Jim seemed damaged enough that he wouldn’t be able to follow immediately. The next step, standing up, was harder, but he managed, swaying a little on his feet before regaining himself enough to start moving, slowly at first but building in speed as he recovered himself somewhat. _Get out get out get out get out_ —at the end of the hallway, he was struck suddenly by a sound from the room he’d been held in. Giggles. The madman was actually giggling, the echoing sound following him down the hallway to haunt him. “Oh, Johnny boyyyyy!” he heard, though he slipped behind the corner of the hallway, out of sight in case said madman decided to follow him with more than just his words. He continued to creep down the hallway as Jim continued, his words growing fainter, interrupted occasionally by his giggles. “I knew you’d be fun when I picked you. This isn’t over…my love. Not even a teensy little bit.” His blood turned to ice at that, frozen solid again, and for a moment he was fixed to the spot. No. No, no, _move!_ He started running again, not caring at this point if Jim heard him and tried to use it to locate him. “I’ll see you again, Johnny boy!”

He didn’t stop. Didn’t react. Didn’t think. And certainly didn’t feel. He just kept running and running and running and running and running and STOP! He was outside. The building was in the distance. He was leaning against the nearest wall, a brick one that seemed to fence in the yard of the house a little farther down the street. _A house_. His hand pressed to his shoulder in a futile effort to stop the blood loss that was the most dangerous thing to him right now, he stumbled his way over to the door, barely managing to ring the doorbell. The house was dark, the sky was just beginning to turn gray, and he looked like an unbelievable, frightening mess, he was sure. But he was _alive_. Jesus Christ it felt so good to just breathe, just draw air into his lungs and then push it out, and he jumped when the door open unexpectedly, a rather stunned looking middle-aged man on the other side.

“Hi,” he panted out, nearly wheezing from the stress he’d put his body under. “My name is John Watson, and I’ve just been attacked. Please, can you contact the police?”

He passed out on the steps before they arrived.

***

“How are the drugs working?”

“Fine, fine.”

Some scribbled notes. The notes were the worst part, really. Because they made him feel like there really was something wrong with him. “So your mood’s been good, then?”

“Yeah, it’s been fine. Pretty steady.”

His psychiatrist looked up at him, her pen pausing where it had been scratching words just a moment before. “Not feeling depressed anymore, then?”

“Jesus Christ, I never was depressed,” he said, the words coming out with an irritated exhale.

The psychiatrist put her pen down entirely. That was never a good sign. “John, you experienced a severe trauma and then immediately tried to ship out with the army—”

“And I passed every one of their psych evaluations, so what does that tell you?” John bit out, beyond frustrated at this point. He’d lost count of how many times he’d had this conversation already and who exactly with, only knowing that no one seemed to believe him when he said he was fine. Well, no one who knew about the incident. Everyone else remained blissfully in the dark. “There is nothing wrong with me. I survived a bad experience, yes, and I went into the army, yes, and then I got shot and I came home. But that was seventeen years ago. I’m taking my medication, my mood is fine, and I. Am. Okay. That answer isn’t going to change no matter how many times you ask me.”

His psychiatrist looked at him for a minute before pressing her lips together with an exhale through her nose, picking up her pen to begin writing again. Shit. Probably shouldn’t have had that outburst. Probably set him back by more than a few weeks. And usually he was so good at faking his way through these things.

After a few minutes of John cursing himself and pretending that wasn’t what he was doing at all, she spoke again. “And how’s your appetite been?”

“Good, normal,” John said. That one was true. He’d been eating fine recently.

“And your sleep?”  
Lie. Lie now. “Still a bit rocky, you know. But the nightmares are only about once a month, so it’s okay,” he said, and thank god she seemed to believe him.

“Is the medication doing anything at all to help you before you sleep?” she asked, busy taking notes again.

“Yeah, I think so.” No, no it wasn’t. And once a month would have been downright heaven compared to how frequent it was. _Still_ was, even after all this time. At least it wasn’t as bad as it had been right afterwards.

She smiled at him. Yes, definitely believed him about the sleep, at the very least. “I’m sorry you’re so frustrated about this, John, but we’re really only trying to make sure you stay healthy. I know, it’s been seventeen years. But this is going to continue to affect your life, and you know that.”

He sighed. “I know. But really, I am fine,” he said, and offered a small, almost apologetic smile in return for hers.

“Good. Do you already have your next appointment with Ella set up?”

“Yeah, I’m seeing her next week. Wednesday, I think.”

“I’m sure she’s excited to hear all about your new flatmate,” she said with a smile. “What did you say his name was?”

And John couldn’t help the tug of his lips up into a smile at the reminder of the one person who was probably doing him the most good out of anyone, including his psychiatrist and therapist, as he replied, “Sherlock Holmes.”

***

Sherlock hadn’t known, immediately. He’d been able to deduce quite a few things about John, including his military service and his sister (well, he’d thought brother, the only thing he’d gotten wrong), but there had been absolutely nothing to tip him off to that one essential event in John’s past. And honestly, thank god for that. Not just because it was a traumatic event for him or because Sherlock handled emotion about as carefully as a bull did china, but also because it meant that he had managed to eradicate all outward traces of it from his appearance. That it wasn’t woven into him so deeply that it was always there, always evident, or at least capable of being spotted by a genius.

No, Sherlock didn’t know, and John wanted to keep it that way. The less people who knew, the better, especially if the person in question was his lunatic genius flatmate who would probably find the whole thing fascinating in a way that would no doubt be sickening to John. Unfortunately, fate wasn’t quite done kicking John around a bit and Sherlock did find out, because of a sodding rainstorm and a suspect who for some goddamn reason thought he could run and outsmart Sherlock Holmes of all people.

The combined effect was that they were both soaking when they returned to the flat, to the point of actually dripping onto the floor, which John was sure Mrs. Hudson would give them hell for later. Sherlock’s coat must have weighed at least ten pounds, judging by the sound it made when it hit the floor as Sherlock peeled it off of himself, John’s jacket already nearby. As Sherlock worked on unbuttoning his shirt, suit jacket quickly shrugged off, John’s cardigan was already off and his shirt halfway undone, the rest of the buttons opening easily until he shrugged it off his shoulders, holding onto it and picking up his jacket and cardigan so he could go hang both to dry in the bathroom before doing the rest of his stripping in a more appropriate place than in the living room with his flatmate.   
He was distracted from his task by a soft, “Oh,” from Sherlock. He turned to look at his flatmate, brow furrowing before his expression cleared when he followed Sherlock’s line of sight. The scar. Of course. Because he apparently wasn’t allowed to keep secrets anymore. It was a hideous thing; all warped and twisted, made out of marred flesh. _He_ had only succeeded in carving half of the spider on his left shoulder, and John getting shot in the same spot had somehow made it worse. He would have thought it was good, that it would replace the evidence of what the psychopath did with something else, erase his touch. Instead, the starburst shape of it added to the effect of the intended spider, the legs that the killer had carved sticking out from the bullet wound as if the wound itself was the body of the spider. It was sickening, quite honestly, and he had to live with it every day of his life.

“So you’re him,” Sherlock said quietly. John straightened up from where he’d been picking up his jacket from the floor, suddenly feeling extremely self-conscious. “The one that got away. The only person to survive The Spider.”

Even the name was nearly enough to make a shudder ripple through him, but by now he’d managed to suppress that instinct, his posture going tighter instead. Sherlock’s eyes were intently focused on him as if he was looking at just another crime scene, no doubt picking up on every little detail about John and reevaluating them in light of these new facts. Most of the cautious parts of John’s nature could be attributed to his time in Afghanistan, but in truth, almost all of them came from a very different source, and John was sure Sherlock could figure out what originated from where. The man really was too clever for his own good.

He didn’t answer him, choosing to stay silent because Sherlock wasn’t asking for confirmation. He didn’t need it, at this point, and John would just have to wait until Sherlock lost his interest in it so they could go back to being flatmates and friends. Funny, though, that his breathing seemed to have picked up of its own accord. Though, to be honest, it seemed to do that whenever _he_ was mentioned. Sherlock took a step closer to him, eyes narrowing in his usual deduction gaze that John was always fascinated by, until it was focused on him. “Seventeen years ago,” the detective started slowly, baritone the low rumble of approaching thunder, “The Spider was the most wanted killer in London. He slipped up and one victim managed to escape, with minor injuries at that, and described him to the police. With the name they received along with the description, they managed to track him down and imprison him. One Jim Moriarty, it seems. He’s regarded as one of the world’s most dangerous serial killers, and you managed to escape him.” He paused, and John braced himself for the question he knew was coming next, the question everyone starting with the police had asked him since that night. “How?”

He released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding through his noise, his gaze still locked with Sherlock’s. It took him a minute, because it always did. Things like this didn’t come out any easier even after saying them hundreds of times. “I got lucky,” he finally said. “He made a mistake, I took advantage, and I got away.”

“What mistake?” Sherlock asked, his eyes nearly sharp as they looked straight back at John. God, he hated that, when it seemed like Sherlock could see right through him and had no problem demonstrating. Because he could, actually, see through him, and John knew that.

“He handcuffed me and looped the chain around a rusty pipe. He’d drugged me so he thought I was weaker than I was and probably thought the pipe was still pretty strong. But I yanked my hands down and managed to break it, kicked him enough to knock him back, and escaped.” It amazed him how detached his voice was as he went through it. He just couldn’t afford to relive the emotions of that night every time he recounted what happened, which was quite a bit. It would drive him insane faster than anything else. “He’d already carved half of the spider into me by then, but that was about all. I got up and ran like hell, and he didn’t catch me. Then I went to the police.”

“And they kept your name out of the papers so he wouldn’t be able to find you again.”

A short nod. “Nobody knew it was me unless they were involved in the case or I told them. They kept me under police protection for a while, just in case he tried to contact me or send someone after me, but they couldn’t keep that up permanently. I switched schools, I went into the military, and then I came here. Never, in all of that time, have I seen any sign of…him.”

“But you’re still afraid he’s going to come for you,” Sherlock said, and John wondered when exactly it was that the detective had taken another step towards him, and then another. They seemed too close now; or perhaps that was just a panic attack setting in due to the lack of personal space and the discussion at hand. God no, please let it not be that, it’d been years. So many years. “You’re terrified, in fact. That’s why you sleep with your gun under your pillow, why you have so many nightmares. It’s not the war that haunts you; it’s him.”

He wasn’t even going to bother asking how Sherlock knew that he slept with his gun under his pillow. "He told me, that night, that it wasn’t over. Wouldn’t you have believed him too?” He was aware, now, that he was hardly breathing, having fallen into the silent, stressed pattern he took on when he felt in danger. This conversation would have to end, _soon_.

Sherlock’s hand reached out seemingly of its own accord before he stopped himself, asking, “May I?”

Never, in a million years, would he have trusted someone to touch his scar. Hell, he didn’t know what would happen if they did. A full blown panic attack wasn’t out of the question. Traumatic flashbacks, perhaps. At the very least, shivering or shaking and possibly crying. And yet, somehow, he nodded in response to Sherlock’s request, watching as those long fingers gently brushed against the mark.

He held his breath; and nothing happened. Yes, there was that initial twinge of panic, but that faded because his mind recognized that this was Sherlock’s hand, that this was the man he’d killed for and if he could trust him enough to do that, he could certainly trust him to touch one measly piece of flesh. He let out a deep, slightly shaky exhale that had Sherlock’s eyes darting to his for a second before they went back to the scar. Those pale fingers were gentle as they explored, fingertips just lightly brushing against it before growing a little bolder, seeming to use John’s breathing and the hitches or lack thereof in it as a guideline for what to do and not do. John was, after all, trying to keep his breathing even, but it was harder when Sherlock traced each leg of the spider with the tip of his finger, tracing from the body outwards. He managed to stay in place for a few minutes before saying, voice rough, “Sherlock.”

It was just one word, just the detective’s name, but it caused his eyes to flick to John’s and though his hand lingered for a moment, it did withdraw, and John found that he could breathe properly again. It hadn’t been touched since…well, it hadn’t been touched by someone other than himself since it was finally healed and he no longer had to wear bandages. From that point on, he didn’t want anyone to touch it, didn’t even want anyone to see it. “It’s hideous, I know,” he said in a voice forced into a joke, a small, faked smile on his lips, voicing the thought bouncing through his head as he looked away from Sherlock. Down at the floor, actually, unable to see the detective at the moment. “Not much they can do in terms of removal, though, and the bullet wound made it worse.”

“I think it’s exceptional.”

The words were so low and so unexpected that John wasn’t actually sure he’d heard them at first. His eyes instantly jumped back up to Sherlock, who was looking at him in a nearly reverent way. But why…why would Sherlock… “Why would you say that?” he asked, his own voice quiet, almost disbelieving.

“Because it’s true.” Sherlock hand hovered over John’s skin, millimeters away from the scar but still posed as if he was a second away from touching it. “I know it represents an ugly part of your past—two, actually—but without those parts you wouldn’t be you.” His eyes were fixed on John’s now, something inscrutable in their depths. “And you, John Watson, are exceptional.”

John’s breath caught in his throat at the same time as Sherlock’s hand moved to lie gently on the scar, but it wasn’t because of the action. No, god no, he wasn’t even thinking about the gentle hand on his skin right now, not when Sherlock was leaning in so close, those long black lashes fluttering shut as he—oh. As he softly pressed his lips to John’s, John’s eyes slipping shut in response.

***

_“We’re going to have so much fun together, Johnny boy. You and I.”_

_A cool hand brushing over the smooth skin of his shoulder almost reverently._

_“Oh, don’t look so dubious. I make such a good playmate. And you, my dear, are perfect.” A knife blade along his skin, tip dragging lightly before a sharp pain, the sensation of being cut, of something being carved into him, the madman’s smile above him, the way he giggled as he bled, the pain and the pain and the pain and—_

_BANG._

John woke up sweating and shaking, the dream leaving him completely panicked before he could remember where he was. Right. Still here. In 221B. In bed, on his back with Sherlock’s arm haphazardly slung across his waist as the other man slept on his stomach. Oh, that was a rare sight. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually seen Sherlock asleep. No, he couldn’t wake him if he was asleep, even if he wanted reassurance after his nightmare.

“Don’t worry, I’m already awake,” Sherlock said against the pillow before he rolled onto his side to face John, hand kept on John’s stomach. His eyes fixed on John, looking deeply into him as if he could see straight to the other man’s soul. “Him again?”

John nodded, afraid to actually say the words out loud, partly out of some sort of strange superstition that kept him from ever saying _his_ name, and partly because he wasn’t sure if he could hold back a breakdown if he did say it.

“Can I touch you?” Sherlock asked, voice careful. He’d learned after the first time when John had nearly scratched his eyes out that it was better to ask permission, never really knowing whether John would welcome it or recoil. This time John nodded and Sherlock slid in closer as John turned onto his side until his forehead was pressed against Sherlock’s chest, Sherlock’s hand sweeping lightly down his spine. His voice was soft as he asked, “What did you see?”

Sherlock always asked what was in the dream. John never really wanted to answer, because god, why would he want to lay out all of his flaws and fault lines for his partner? But Sherlock already knew him inside and out, and this was just one more thing. An important thing, because it took over his nights more often than not and woke him up, gasping for air while Sherlock was usually sitting placidly beside him, typing on his laptop or reading or doing whatever it was that was more important than sleep. So John ended up answering anyway, as hard as it was to drag the words out.

“It was…it was just before he started cutting me. And then…he…started, and then I heard the gunshot and he shot me in the shoulder. And then I woke up.” He could feel his throat constrict around the words, each one becoming more and more difficult as he continued, until he finished with a stuttered exhale and pressed his face into Sherlock’s chest so any tears that did come of their own accord would be muffled against the other man. Sherlock’s soothing hand continued up and down his spine, John’s tense muscles ever so slowly relaxing underneath it.   
“It’s alright, John,” Sherlock murmured in his hair. “I’ve got you.”

John nodded quickly, pressing himself closer to the other man to soak up the comfort he so desperately needed. He forced his breathing pattern to return to normal again, the feel of Sherlock’s chest rising and falling deeply and steadily against him helping him to calm down. At least it wasn’t as bad as it used to be. Right after the incident he’d moved in with Harry because he literally could not spend any amount of time over a minute alone, and even that much made him feel panicky. He constantly surrounded himself with people as a means of protection, and no longer walked alone anywhere. If walking alone was the only way for him to get somewhere, he simply wouldn’t go. That meant skipped classes, missed tests, missing out on gatherings with friends. The worst part was that so few people knew what had happened to him, and so didn’t understand why he jumped at every shadow and avoided every newspaper, all of which were running the story of the miraculous escape of _his_ latest victim and the capture. Everyone seemed to think that it was over, that it was done, that it wouldn’t happen again. John knew otherwise. _He_ wasn’t defeated at all; just waiting in the dark, biding his time, waiting to complete the work he’d started. Which meant John was at the top of his list.

“He isn’t coming back for you.” Sherlock’s baritone rumbled through his chest, vibrating against John’s head as he read his thoughts.

John sighed, burying his nose against the t shirt Sherlock had worn to bed and inhaling the scent, Sherlock’s scent deeply, finding that, as always, it calmed him down and relaxed his nerves. “He’s in prison, John,” Sherlock continued, and John shook his head.

“I know, but…”

“Maximum security. I don’t care how smart he is, he has almost no chance of escaping.”

John exhaled against him, hand pressed to Sherlock’s chest as he lightly gripped his shirt, more for stability than anything. Funny, how much he relied on Sherlock for comfort now even though just a few months ago they’d been sleeping in separate rooms. “But there is a chance,” he managed to say after a minute, continuing quickly before Sherlock could speak. “And yes, I know, that chance is infinitesimally small, but it’s still there, Sherlock. And even if it wasn’t, I would still worry, because that’s just how it is. It doesn’t matter how irrational it is, or how stupid, or how unlikely. I’m still afraid. And I always will be.”

“I know,” Sherlock murmured gently, pressing a kiss to the top of his head and leaving his nose buried in his blonde hair. “And I wish I could make it better for you.” They passed a few minutes in a silence that wasn’t really uncomfortable, just resigned, and then Sherlock asked, “Would you like some tea?”

“I’d love some,” John said, tipping his head up to look at the other man with a small, grateful smile, and Sherlock smiled back, pressing a quick,  gentle kiss to his lips before getting up and heading into the kitchen. True, John didn’t like being alone, but it was different when he was in his and Sherlock’s bed, surrounded by the scent of the other man and the warm patch of bedding where Sherlock had just lain. He curled up halfway onto Sherlock’s side of the bed, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of the other man as he listened to the pleasant background noise of Sherlock moving about the kitchen. He was feeling much, much better after his dream, and somewhat sleepy again…

 

_“Do you dream about me, Johnny boy?”_

John jerked awake, breathing heavy as he instantly sat up, eyes darting about the room. He must have imagined that. Right? He had to have imagined that, even though the killer in his dreams never said those words. He’d imagined that, and what had felt like a soft touch against his cheek, and he’d certainly imagined—oh no. He didn’t imagine that last part.

“Sherlock!” he called out, shocked that he managed to keep his voice from breaking apart. Sherlock was back in the room in an instant, expression making it clear that he’d heard the distress in John’s voice, and he instantly reacted with, “What’s wrong?”

“He was here, Sherlock,” John said, his voice adamant, but with a thread of panic in it. “He was here, in the flat, in this room.”

“John, it was just a dream, your mind—”

“No it bloody well wasn’t,” John said, and nodded over at the still open window. Which had been closed when Sherlock left the room. Sherlock’s expression instantly changed and he stalked over to it, looking at the frame, the panes, into the street below, whatever was around with the concentrated focus in his eyes that was usually attached to deductions.

He examined the latch for a moment before turning back to John and asking, “What did you see?”

“I didn’t _see_ anything. I dozed off, heard his voice, and when I woke up, the window was open.”

“What did he say?”

John swallowed, looking down at the part of the sheets that was clenched tight in his white-knuckled fist. “He asked…if I dream about him,” he said after a minute, eyes going back to Sherlock.

They passed a moment in silence before Sherlock said, “John, nightstand.”

“What—” The question died on his lips when he turned to the nightstand beside him and saw what was sitting on it. One of those awful fake spider rings they gave out to kids on Halloween, only this one had been snapped in half, only four of the legs remaining just like—he realized  his hand had unconsciously gone to his scarred shoulder and he instantly yanked it back down. He looked back at Sherlock, and his expression must have said everything because Sherlock looked pale, and terrified. “Now, John, it could just be a copycat—” he started to say, tone placating, and John instantly cut him off.

“He is the only one who knows who I am, Sherlock, aside from the police, and I bloody well don’t think that they would do this just to have a laugh. _He knew my name_. He got it out of me when he had me in that bloody factory and he knows who I am, Sherlock, he must know.”

“John, he is still in prison. I can check online, right now, and prove to you that he’s still locked up tight,” Sherlock said, fumbling in his dressing gown pocket before he pulled out his phone, taking a minute before handing it to John. “No prison break reported, no sudden reappearance of his name on the most wanted list. The prison is at least an hour away and breaks are reported immediately for public safety, he wouldn’t have had time to get here before it was on the news. He’s still locked up.”

“But he’s the only one who knows!” John exclaimed, frustrated and terrified and exhausted and trying to get across how vitally important this was when Sherlock was trying to be rational and logical about the whole thing. He didn’t care about rational and logical, he cared about the panic that was clawing at his chest and the hysteria bubbling up in his throat as fear threatened to hold him down and suffocate him. And Sherlock could see it. He could see by the expression on Sherlock’s face that he knew what was happening, knew what John was feeling right now, and knew that there wouldn’t be any way to placate him. Not this time.

So instead he simply said, “Alright. I have several safe houses throughout the city. I’ll alert Mycroft about the situation and while he’s working on it, we’ll move between houses so we’re not in one place for long. Alright?”

It took a moment for John to respond, surprised as he was by the sudden capitulation on Sherlock’s part. Then he nodded, and Sherlock leaned in closer to him, putting his hand on his cheek. “If you say he was here, I believe you. We’ll leave tonight, alright?” he asked, and pressed a kiss to John’s forehead when he nodded. “I promise you, everything will be fine.”

John wound his arms around Sherlock’s neck, pulling the other man down into a tight and unexpected hug. “Thank you,” he breathed, closing his eyes as he buried his face in the detective’s shoulder and fought the urge to cry. “God, thank you, Sherlock.”

***

Sherlock had been chain smoking and the most telling thing that something was wrong was that John wasn’t even bothering to try and stop him. They were both tense and on edge, waiting for the conclusion of Mycroft’s thorough search for any way _he_ could be running around London instead of locked up safely in a cell, where it was confirmed he currently was. The constant moving around didn’t help the thick tension perpetually pervading the air, instead adding to it because neither of them ever felt truly settled somewhere before they were off again. But they couldn’t return to 221B, not yet, not when they didn’t know for sure.

John slept with his gun under his pillow again, though he hardly slept at all. Usually he only did because it got to be too much and Sherlock forced him to, staying awake to watch over him as he writhed and twisted in the sheets from nightmares in a sad parody of sleep. Sleeping was the last thing he wanted to do, because every time he closed his eyes, _he_ was there. Waiting to carve into his shoulder, or whisper the same chilling words from that night, or shoot him point blank, the tearing pain in his shoulder waking him up with a bang.

He stopped taking his medication. It numbed his depression, usually a good thing, but in this case, even if it hurt, he had to be alert. He needed to see and hear and feel everything acutely so he would be ready. So he’d be able to fire the gun he perpetually carried with steady hands. Because the biggest fear he had, the one that he carried under the surface of a prepared soldier, was that when the time came, he wouldn’t be able to do anything. He’d freeze up, fail, and be responsible for his own death and possibly Sherlock’s as well. Well, his own death he could be responsible for. Sherlock’s…no. Never. John Watson wasn’t afraid of many things, but he was certainly afraid of the man that had almost taken his life. There had been nothing human in that smile he’d given John. There was nothing human in him period.

“Oh, _twins_!” Sherlock exclaimed suddenly, looking up from his mobile and startling John as he made tea.  
“I’m sorry?” he said, brow furrowing as he turned to look at his boyfriend. Best friend. Lover. Partner. He could never really settle on a word.

Sherlock’s eyes were alight with that gleam they had whenever he’d found the solution to a case or arrived at the end of a train of thought to find an epiphany waiting for him. “ _Twins_ ,” he repeated, grinning up at John as if the solution to the world was in that one word. “Mycroft just texted me to say Jim Moriarty had a twin that practically no one knew about, a man named Richard Brook. They’re _identical twins_. Don’t you see what this means, John? There are an infinite number of ways that he could be out of prison now. They could have had a visit together, bribed the guard and shut off the video cameras before switching places so Jim could get out to come back for you, or Richard could have been in his place from the very beginning.” _Sherlock_. “It was definitively Jim’s fingerprints and DNA they found on you, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t have put Richard in his place if they found a way to switch. Jim is certainly a genius, Richard, more likely than not, is one too, and if both of them are so immorally inclined then a solution would be all too easy for them to arrive at. Or, also possible, it could be Richard doing this and not Jim, but I very much doubt that. Jim Moriarty is the type of man who wants to do things personally, with his own hands. He’s the one who’s been obsessed with you since whenever he picked you out as a victim, and he’s the one who wants to get to you. He wouldn’t set Richard on you, and Richard wouldn’t do it of his own accord, if he was going to retaliate for you sending his brother to prison he would have done it much sooner, no need to wait until now.” _Sherlock._ His throat had stopped working, panic scratching it to the point of uselessness. “No, this is happening now because somehow Jim got out, somehow he and Richard worked something out and somehow he managed to locate you. Considering he had your full name and a description it probably wasn’t very difficult. He’s actually probably been watching you for quite a while now, like he did the first time, but then why did he decide to strike now? Jealousy? Ohhh. _Yes_. Yes, that’s exactly it! Psychopathy does tend to mistake obsession for love, doesn’t it? He doesn’t want anyone else touching you because now he perceives you as his.” _For the love of god, Sherlock, please_ —he was choking. He had to be choking. That would explain his sudden lack of oxygen, everything a bit fuzzy and his head spinning, dizzy. “No doubt because your escape from him made you someone special to him, someone worthy of his attention and time because you’d done something no one else had done before, and you _beat_ him. He’s not angry, he’s _fascinated_. So of course when he realized you’d started up a relationship with me and that it wasn’t going to be nearly the same as any of your fleeting encounters with women—and actually just the fact that I’m a man and you’ve never had a relationship with a man before would make me significant, _too_ significant for his taste—his jealousy wouldn’t let him wait anymore. He decided to strike now before you slipped any farther away from him which means he must be targeting both of us—” He was stopped by the sound of the cup John was holding smashing against the floor. His eyes, which had been moving about as he reasoned things through, gesticulating, instantly snapped to John, who was standing in the kitchen and staring at the mug fragments on the floor as if he was contemplating using them to slash his wrists. Sherlock was on his feet in an instant.

“John?”

He heard Sherlock say his name, but he didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t _breathe_. How could he when there was that pressure in his chest, that unbelievable and unrelenting weight that came with knowing _he_ could be out of jail and tracking them this very second? That he could have been watching them, observing, seeing everything, every kiss and touch and intimate moment—he barely made it to the sink in time before he retched, his stomach emptying its contents more than willingly. He paused for a minute, breathing harsh, before he started running water, washing the mess down the drain before starting to wash his mouth out, gargling water and spitting it back out mindlessly, repeatedly, until a long fingered, pale hand reached over and shut off the faucet.

“John.”

That same hand reached out to touch him and he flinched away jerkily, putting his hands out in front of himself to make it very clear that no, no, this was not one of those times when he could have Sherlock touch him. Sherlock instantly held up his hands to show that he wasn’t a threat, that he’d keep his distance, and after a minute John sagged against the counter, leaning heavily against it and relying on it to support far too much of his weight because he couldn’t hold himself up anymore.

“John,” Sherlock said for a third time, slowly, “none of that means that he is actually after us.”

“No, no, it does, because there is no other reasonable explanation, Sherlock,” John said, his voice low and strained.

“There must be another. A copycat, maybe. Whatever it is, Mycroft is working on it.”

John shook his head, closing his eyes as he sank down, slipping along the cabinet until he was sitting on the floor, his back to it and his knees folded almost against his chest. “It’s not enough,” he said weakly. “It won’t be enough.”

He could hear the subtle, slow movements of Sherlock coming closer, and opened his eyes to find the other man crouched beside him, near but not too close. “I promise you, John,” he said, eyes soft as he looked at him, “I won’t let anything happen to you. We’ll be safe.”

“No. No, no, no, no, no, no,” John said, repeatedly shaking his head back and forth against the cabinet. He closed his eyes as tears began to claw at his throat, making it difficult to speak to the point that he just didn’t bother trying anymore.

He heard a sigh before Sherlock said, “You should get some sleep, John. It’s been awhile and you need to calm down.”

John stayed silent for a minute, chest heaving with the heavy breaths he was taking in an effort to settle his nerves. Maybe Sherlock was right. Sleep would probably help. He was wound up so tightly that anything could make him snap in two. And staying awake with his racing thoughts and panicking heart wouldn’t do him any good anyway. After a minute he nodded, opening his eyes, and Sherlock offered him his hand to stand. After a few seconds to consider it, he accepted and Sherlock pulled him to his feet, John instantly falling against his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around him and burying his face against his chest as he took shaky breaths. Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him after a surprised second, one splayed hand rubbing his back while the other just held onto him.

They didn’t say anything for a few minutes, neither of them having to, until John said, “I’m sorry for being like this.”

“For being like what?” Sherlock asked, the smooth velvet of his voice stitched over with confusion.

John laughed weakly. “Like this. A mess. I’m clinging to you and I can’t be more than a few feet from you and I’m just so—” He clutched tightly to Sherlock, a breath shuddering out of his lungs. “I’m so dependent on you and I’m sorry because I know this must be annoying for you to deal with all the time.” God, that was so true, wasn’t it? He was so completely and utterly dependent on Sherlock right now and he was such a burden for it. He was slowly falling apart, and dragging Sherlock down with him.

“John,” Sherlock murmured softly, pulling back enough that he could see John, taking a hand to tip the other man’s face up. John reluctantly looked back into sea foam green eyes, knowing he looked like a mess right now. Because he was one. “You are not a weight for me to carry, and you’re not a mess. I love you. Nothing is going to tear me away from you, and certainly not you needing me. It’s alright. I am here for you.”

John choked out a sob and pressed his face against the other man again, holding on tightly as Sherlock stroked up and down his back again, slowly soothing him. He didn’t know how long they stayed like that, how long Sherlock indulged his need for contact and stood in the kitchen, just holding him and reassuring him, not caring that his shirt was getting soaked through with tears. Eventually, though, Sherlock managed to calm him down enough to lead him to bed, making sure he was settled in.

“I take it you’re not coming?” John asked, safe under the covers while Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed next to him, running his fingers through his blonde hair as if it was the most fascinating thing in the world. It was a nice, soothing motion, and it wasn’t helping his exhausted mind stay above the surface for the few minutes he needed it to.

“I’ve still got some work to do considering what Mycroft told me earlier,” he said, his eyes traveling from where his hand was combing through blonde strands to John’s eyes. “But if you want me to stay here, I will.”

“No, I’ve—I’ve asked you to do enough for me. Get some work done, and come along whenever you’d like.” He offered a smile to Sherlock, small but genuine, and Sherlock smiled back.

Sherlock kissed him on the forehead. “I’ll be in the sitting room if you need anything,” he promised, and left John with a smile, leaving the door open behind him. It made John feel safer to have it open, to know that Sherlock could hear him and would come if he fell into nightmares again. Which he undoubtedly would.

He settled down in the bed, feeling a bit more at ease in this safe house than the last. They’d been here for longer than any of the others, and while that was somewhat dangerous, it also meant that he could actually settle a bit, get used to it. It wasn’t 221B, but it at least felt a little more personal. The bed had had enough time to start smelling like Sherlock on the side opposite John, which was what helped him sleep more than anything. Well, Sherlock was really what helped him sleep more than anything, but he did have better things to do with his time than cater to every needy whim that John had. As much as he craved his presence—constantly, in fact—he couldn’t always expect Sherlock to drop everything and come running to him. Besides, he was working on important things. He had dropped his cases, had almost stopped consulting entirely, just so he could try to figure this whole mess out before something terrible happened to either of them. He really was an amazing, amazing man, and John was incredibly lucky to have him. And that was the thought he fell asleep to.

***

Sherlock knew exactly how long it would take John to fall asleep. Even before they’d started dating, he’d had an intimate knowledge of the man’s functions, including his sleeping patterns. John, exhausted as he was, would take approximately six minutes and twenty seven seconds to fall asleep. Sure enough, when Sherlock checked on him seven minutes after putting him to bed he was already fast asleep, curled up halfway across the bed with his head on Sherlock’s pillow. Ah, now that was adorable, wasn’t it? John’s dependence on him stretched even into his unconscious world. It sent a thrill through Sherlock.

He didn’t move immediately, knowing that John did actually need some sleep and was verging on a collapse. While he did so enjoy John being entirely dependent on him, he could only push him so far before he broke, and he certainly didn’t want that. He loved John. He just had his own way of showing it. Okay, so maybe this didn’t have so much to do with love. Well, no, actually, it did. Because this was his way of making sure John stayed with him. Of making sure John needed him as much as he needed John.

Besides, it was harmless. He wasn’t causing any actual damage to him—well, no _physical_ damage—and he was making sure he moved slowly enough that John could recover somewhat before he struck again. What he was doing was actually better than the truth, really; it could be considered wrong, but at least there wasn’t really a psychopathic killer from his past after him. Jim Moriarty was safely locked up in prison, though the bit about twins had been true. Richard Brook existed, but the two brothers hadn’t seen each other in years. But John didn’t need to know that.

When John had been asleep for about a half an hour, he decided to lay things out, knowing John would still be able to get a few hours of sleep before he discovered anything was wrong. He stood up from the table, going to the cabinet and pulling out one of his ‘experiment’ jars that John knew better than to touch, ignoring his mobile as it buzzed with a text from Mycroft, no doubt. ( **This is a dangerous game you’re playing, Sherlock. You can’t keep it up forever.-M** ) Mycroft didn’t understand. Everything was fine. Things were better this way. He’d known they’d be better this way since the very first day he saw John’s scar and learned what the doctor had been hiding from him.

He uncapped the jar and tipped it into his hand, shaking a few spider rings into his palm before tipping the rest back in and holding onto one. The jar went back into the cabinet, sealed shut from prying eyes and John’s trusting hands. He snapped half of the spider’s legs off, throwing the four detached legs down the sink drain before making his way silently into the bedroom. God, John looked so peaceful like this. So relaxed. And open. And _trusting_. He trusted Sherlock with his life on a daily basis, and it was a high unlike anything he’d ever known. Perhaps this could be construed as taking advantage, but he didn’t particularly care. John was his. John was _only_ his, and he would remain so no matter what Sherlock had to do. Honestly, this could be considered mild compared to many other methods he could have employed. He wasn’t an abusive spouse or anything. He just knew how to keep John dependent on him, and he did it. It didn’t hurt anyone. Not even John.

He laid the spider ring down on the bedside table, where John would easily find it when he woke up, and crossed to the window in the room, looking out it for a minute at the dark street below. Pity. It seemed John had liked this one. It was obvious that John missed 221B, and truth be told, Sherlock did too. After this next incident, things would have to calm down for a while, and then he’d be able to convince John they could go back. Tell him it’d be safer that way, that if they stayed at 221B it didn’t matter if Jim knew where they were, because Mycroft could easily put a security detail on the flat. Really, after this one, he wouldn’t have to do anything for quite a while. John’s own fears and paranoia would keep him worried and jumpy, the nightmares wearing him thin. No doubt the depression would return as well, seeing as John had stopped taking his medication and didn’t seem to be inclined to take it again. Yes, after this they could take a break. Recoup. And as soon as he needed to, he would take action again. For now, he just had to open the window, taking a knife from his pocket to cut the screen out, putting it on the floor in front of the window sill as if it’d been pushed in after being cut. Perfect. Just the very thought of Jim having been anywhere near him with a knife would be enough to put John in hysterics, and of course Sherlock would be the first person he turned to. Sherlock would always be the person he turned to.

He wiped the blade of prints before leaving it on the window sill, as if it’d been left as a present for John. His work done, he took a final look at John so peacefully asleep before leaving again with a smile. He settled back down in the kitchen at the table, going through the most recent cold case Greg had given him and pointedly ignoring Mycroft’s messages, waiting for John to wake up. Waiting for the sound of screams. Waiting for John to need him once again.


End file.
